Holism, and: from New Year in Hot Springs

Abstract

Holism, and: from New Year in Hot Springs Brian Blanchfield (bio) Holism I saw a chiropractor once who resembleda poet I loved who loved an older farmerwho was married to a woman insteadinstead. He had been a gymnast, a specialistin the rings, on the national team of a Baltic state.The chiropractor, that is. The poetbecame a distiller and is sought after nowfor his spirits. He lives in Ovid wherehe grows the grain, a Demeter of sorts. Ovid,New York. It was quite intimate, the session—holistic, he called it—in which I was askedto connect to some shame or regret or rageas he adjusted. I was to speak freely.I presented with some immobility,a lessening range in my shoulder girdle, whichhe explored while I lay or turned and gave overor said I did to the emotion. I wanted tobe a good case for him. It was their lashesand bovine eyes and overall compactnessthat they shared. To the poet I admittedmy crush, invited him to my dorm roomexpressly to do so. I remember we eachleaned our temples to the wood frame ofthe top bunk between request and letdown.Bodies mirror each other in empathy. I wanted himnot to feel bad not wanting me. He hada habit, funny now, and fell into it then:to unbutton his shirt when he spoke, especiallyabout poetry, the love we shared. Outsidethe loblolly pines shook free some snowand rebounded. The chiropractor stoodwhere my feet could press against his thighs,held them a little, and lit a final question:Have you, this winter, slipped and braced the fall [End Page 99] with your left hand, perhaps while holding,securing, protecting something in your right?I could not prop on my elbows so I staredstill at the ceiling, not yet reachingfor my shirt. I flashed on my fall down the stairsand the coffee all over the landingthat had splashed despite my grip on the mug.It had been two or three months since, andI had sprung up, not much hurt but stunned.It was as though he had choreographed it.How did you know that?Later, I'd have to stop seeing him, sincehis remedies were all wrong—a protractedprocess to overcome the conviction that I couldsurrender more to his sureness—but I don'tdeny the magic of his answer. Where it hurtsis how it happened. That is always true. [End Page 100] from New Year in Hot Springs i Two bald eagles I saw maybe a minuteapart flying west yesterday latemay be the two sparing effort I seegliding east this morning, against then intothe cloud that has chosen us as campus, crop.The white cat lightfoots it beneathmy car out front to hide from either a whitedog walked by a person or a gray cathaving a confident pee in the snow. I knowwhich of the four is me, trailing early,crouching watching. Window on the which I am.The hot water here at the sink and shower,in my hair is the same sulfur stink pouringinto the village pool from the simple hosewhich fills all Wednesday, and Thursday much.Have you ever heard Odetta. I listened toOdetta sings Dylan with my last hour,sipping, and I swear she stretches time, or—what—she washes time in the rinse of time.I can't believe my fortune is too rarea thought to fall asleep on. The styluslaving the run-out groove. Can't even seethe mountain now, or the third trailer down.Telephone poles but no wires. Whites and brownslike the palette in The Road Warrior,pelts and loincloth, flocking, fur,sand: foundation we said for our formativekink. I pad around cabin six in feltand feel soft and hard, skull and antlerjoined, pine board. I rinse in my company.I think at last the sun is moving something. [End Page 101] iv When something sounds inarguable it might bemusic. Sometimes sudden by dint...